


A Sign of the Times

by findinghome20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Magic, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findinghome20/pseuds/findinghome20
Summary: In the oppressive, buzzing silence, Hermione realized three terrible things at the same time.One: a man with a sharp, angular face stood in the center of the smoke, a smirk playing at his lips and a pale wand in his hand.Two: Ginny was looking at him and screaming.Three: Harry was frozen besides her. And even as the wizard raised his wand, even as a terrible spell began to tumble off his lips, Harry did not move.“It can’t be,” he breathed.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	A Sign of the Times

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a Dramione story, but it will take a couple chapters to get there. Comments welcome and appreciated!

“Hermione?” 

Harry’s voice broke the cold silence of the hallway. He had noticed her absence. Of course he had.

She turned her back to him for a moment as she hastily wiped her eyes with her sleeves. 

“Harry!” she said a little too brightly. “I just got lost on my way to the toilet. You know how the Burrow rearranges the roo-“

She moved to face him, only to find herself pressed into the worn flannel of his shirt as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. 

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, holding her tightly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Hermione gave a little hiccup as she slowly returned the embrace. For a moment, they just held one to one other in the dark. 

“I just thought...” she began, reaching for some sort of language to explain her lonely vigil in the hallway. But the words caught in her throat, a jagged bundle of empty plans and broken hearts. She swallowed and tried again. “I just thought that by Christmas, things would be...”

Different? Normal? 

Happy?

“I know.”

He did know. And so she let him hold her as she began to cry, as the tears fell hot and heavy down her cheeks and the sobs rattled in her chest. As she grieved the empty chairs at Christmas dinners and the empty hands of Teddy Lupin reaching for a mother who would never come. 

There, tucked beneath Harry’s chin, she thought bitterly about how no one had prepared her for this part. For how Fred’s reflection seemed to live in every window and Bellatrix’s shadow in every nightmare, or how the flash of a camera would send her heart racing and her hand reaching for the wand in her back pocket. No one had warned her that Molly Weasley’s Christmas decorations – the sparkling lights and the tree and the ornaments – would trigger thoughts of her own family so visceral, so consuming, that it would feel as if she had swallowed glass.

No – she couldn’t think about her family now. About her dad’s eyes and her mother’s voice. About how only two years ago, they sang carols as her dad played the piano and her mum cut peppermint cake and –

No. 

She couldn’t think about that now. 

She leaned back to look up at Harry, finding his face streaked with his own tears. She reached up to gently wipe them away and brush his hair out of his eyes. 

“You need a haircut,” she said with a shaky smile.

He exhaled unevenly but managed a grin. “I’m not letting you near me with those scissors ever again.”

“It’s not my fault your hair defies the fundamental laws of nature.”

“Are you really going to lecture me about rebellious hair?” He raised an eyebrow and tugged on one of her curls for good measure.

They both laughed at that, the kind of laugh that tasted like warm honeyed tea after a rainstorm. The kind of laugh that reminded her that she was alive, and loved, and loving. 

And so, when Ron came to usher them down to dinner, the smile she gave him was genuine. After all, the war was over. They had each other.

And that would be enough.

\--- 

The Ministry ballroom was an explosion of noise and light and opulence. Silver gossamer banners twisted gracefully above the crowd, and the fountain shimmered as if the water were made of flakes of gold. Glowing strands of light danced across the high ceiling to spell “Happy New Year!” and form the Ministry’s proud “M.” 

Hermione almost thought it was pretty, in a gaudy sort of way.

“Ugh.” She looked away from the ceiling to find Ron staring unhappily at the goblet in his hand. “I think there’s glitter in my drink,” he said, scowling. 

Sure enough, flashes of gold winked up at them from his cup. Ginny grinned.

“That’s okay, Ron, they match your sparkly personality.”

“Very funny.”

Hermione giggled. “You should try it. I think they’re bewitched to taste like raspberry.” 

He glanced at her skeptically but took a hesitant sip. A second later, his mouth twisted into a grimace. 

“Bloody hell, that’s awful,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Gin, let me have a sip of your firewhisky to wash this dow--”

“Absolutely not!” Ginny said, jerking her cup away from his outstretched hand. “I’m not nearly drunk enough yet. You can get your own.”

“But—”

She held up a finger and downed the rest of the drink in one go. Hermione winced for her.

“See?” Ginny said, holding the goblet upside down. “There’s nothing left! Dreadfully sorry. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. Those stuck-up Ravenclaws are flirting with my boyfriend again.”

She stalked off towards the center of the dance floor, where Harry was trying to extricate himself from the manicured clutches of Penelope Clearwater and Marietta Edgecombe. Ron muttered something about “getting my own bloody drink”, and so Hermione was left alone, standing against the wall.

After nearly eight months of Ministry functions, she was quite accustomed to the social dynamics of the group gathered in the ballroom. It was the “who’s who” of magical London, Wizengamot electees dancing with department heads and ex-Ministers of Magic refilling each other’s glasses. Glittering members of British high society, those shrewd individuals who had survived the implosion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, glided from table to table, already seeking to shape the next political era with their money and influence. Hermione watched as one such wizard, a man with deeply set wrinkles and dark eyes, earnestly shook the hand of Kingsley Shacklebolt. She took in his expensive suit and sparkling watch and frowned. Where were he and his handshake when the Order was scrambling for funds and Hermione was scraping dirt off of wild mushrooms? 

She took a sip of her drink and cringed at the bitter taste.

“Not a fan of the mead, eh, Granger?”

Hermione jumped, spilling the contents of the goblet down her front. 

“Oh, bollocks,” she groaned, pulling her wand from clutch and muttering a drying spell, jabbing her wand at stubborn flakes of gold on her red dress. “Stupid bloody drink...” She trailed off as she remembered her company, and she looked up to find Horace Slughorn with a distinctly horrified expression on his face.

“Professor!” she said, straightening immediately. “So sorry. I didn’t...um. See you there.”

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes wide.

She flushed.

“You know, Granger, I feel I must tell you, as your mentor...” Hermione stiffened as he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “a witch never brings her wand to a party. It’s considered quite uncouth, in fact.” He nodded at her gravely.

Hermione was, of course, well aware of the antiquated and patriarchal custom that had most women leaving their wands at home during such functions. But after the war, the idea that she would hand her safety and protection over to any man, even if it were Dumbledore himself, was laughable. 

“Oh, please don’t worry on my account, Professor,” she said smoothly. “I just hold it in my bag for safe-keeping. Undetectable extension charms, you know.” She held up her clutch cheerfully as if to show him all was well.

Slughorn did not look remotely comforted. He was opening his mouth again when Ginny appeared at his elbow.

“Mione!” she said at an alarming volume. “There you are. It’s almost midnight, and they’re asking for you.” She glanced from Hermione’s pursed lips to Slughorn’s disapproving expression and did a double-take. “Erm, hi, Professor,” she said after the awkwardness stretched between them.

“Weezleby,” he said distractedly. 

“Right,” Ginny said slowly, turning back to Hermione. “Well, we should really be making our way to the sta—what in the name of Merlin happened to your dress?”

“What? Noth—oh. Oh.” Hermione looked down only to find the gold-flaked stain from her early mishap still pressed into the fabric of her gown. Unfortunately, the splotch was concentrated solely around her right breast. 

“Oh,” Ginny repeated grimly. “It looks like you’re lactating metal.”

Hermione snorted and started to open her clutch, but Ginny was faster. She reached in the cleavage of her dress and pulled out her wand. 

“Scourgify.” The stain obediently disappeared, leaving Hermione’s red silk outfit decidedly gold-flake-free. 

“There,” Ginny said, returning her wand to its storage. “Good as new. Now, we really should be going. Excuse us, Professor.”

They both turned to Slughorn, who looked like he was about to be ill.

“Bye!” Hermione chirped. “Enjoy the mead!”

“What was that about?” Ginny whispered into her ear as they rushed away from the traumatized professor. “Slughorn looked ready to have a cow.”

Hermione shook her head. “He was lecturing me on bringing my wand to a party.”

“Quel scandale.” Ginny grabbed Hermione’s wrist as they dodged around a group of particularly unsteady witches. “Speaking of wands at the party...McClaggen’s here tonight...” She looked back at Hermione to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively.

Hermione groaned. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying. You and Ron broke up five months ago, and I know McClaggen’s thick, but you can’t deny that he’s well-endow—”

“Ginny!” Hermione hissed. They were approaching a levitating curtain that concealed the backstage of the party.

“I’m just saying.” The red-head held up her hands. “It would help you relieve some stress.”

Hermione shook her head and rolled her eyes, ducking behind the curtain. “Thanks ever so for the top-notch advice.”

“What advice?” Ron and Harry stood a few feet away from the stairs that lead to the stage.

“Don’t worry about it, brother dearest,” Ginny said sweetly. She turned to Harry. “I know you need to lead the count-down because of your—” she gestured vaguely, “—war-hero stuff, but you’d better come find me afterwards.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise,” he said. He reached for Ginny and pulled her close to kiss him.

“Ugh, gross! Please, please stop,” Ron sputtered, pressing his hands against his ears and shutting his eyes.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry said, not looking remotely sorry at all.

“Honestly, Ronald.” Hermione smiled at him. “They’re two consenting adults. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“There may not be anything wrong with it,” Ron replied, looking anywhere but at his sister and best friend. “But that doesn’t mean I need to know about it. Or hear about it. Or like it.”

A booming voice announcing the impending arrival of midnight compelled Ginny to excuse herself, but not before she sent a final, wildly inappropriate look in Harry’s direction. 

A harried-looking ministry witch approached the trio and directed them towards the stairs up to the platform. 

“The Minister will say a few words to ring in the new year,” she said, “and he will introduce you. Then, you’ll count down from 10 to 1 on the Minister’s time.” She anxiously adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and glanced at her watch. “You’ve got all that?”

“Speech, introductions, count-down,” Hermione repeated, offering the woman a small smile. “Got it.”

“Of course, you’re old hats at this sort of thing by now,” she muttered absentmindedly. She squinted at something on her clipboard and jumped. “Merlin’s pants, the fairies have started throwing candles at each other. I told them that—” 

She turned on the spot and apparated.

“She seemed calm,” Ron remarked.

Harry snorted.

Just then, Kingsley’s voice echoed across the room.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and happy New Year. As your Minister of Magic, it is my honor to welcome you to our celebration.

Kingsley paused as the crowd quieted. From her spot behind the stage, Hermione could just see the navy edges of his cloak.

“Tonight,” Kingsley continued, “we are not simply marking the arrival of a new year, but also the end of an era of immense pain and darkness. Together, we stood in the face of overwhelming evil and cruelty, in defense of our homes and our families, in moments of joy and in moments of suffering. And together, we reclaimed our world, a world we will rebuild on pillars of equity, honor, and dignity.”

The room murmured its assent good-naturedly. Pretty words sound even prettier when alcohol is involved, and the sparkly mead had been flowing liberally all evening.

“To mark the significance of this occasion,” Kinsley said grandly, “I am thrilled to be joined by the three remarkable individuals, to whom we all owe so much. Ladies and—”

“Here we go,” Harry whispered in Hermione’s ear, moving her towards the stairs. “You ready?” 

She jerked a nod. How could anyone truly be ready for this?

“—join me in welcoming Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter!”

And then they were on the stage, smiling at Kingsley and the crowd, waving at faces, some of which they knew and others they pretended to recognize. The room seemed larger from up above, and Hermione was taken aback by the wildly delighted crowd. Somehow, a champagne flute had appeared in her hand, and she held to it tightly. 

Harry and Ron took their spots next to her, and they all shared a glance. Harry’s eyes were warm and happy, and Ron’s cheeks were flushed behind his freckles. Despite the unsettling flashes of light, Hermione felt herself leaning into their smiles and finding her own.

“Harry, Ron, and Hermione,” Kingsley said, reaching over to shake Harry’s hand warmly. “Would you do us the honor?”

“With pleasure,” Harry replied.

The three of them took out their wands and pointed them towards the ceiling. Strands of gold from each tip joined in the air and twisted into the number 10. A moment later, they danced into an elegant 9.

“EIGHT! SEVEN!” the crowd chanted.

Hermione intertwined her fingers with Ron’s and Harry wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Happy New Year,” Ron said, squeezing her hand.

"FIVE! FOUR!”

“Love you both,” Hermione whispered.

“THREE! TWO!”

They turned back to the crowd, glasses raised in a toast.

“ONE!”

BOOM.

The glass broke in Hermione’s hand. The noise had not come from the planned fireworks nor from the dueling fairies, but rather from a cloud of dark gray smoke billowing out from the center of the ballroom. 

In an oppressive, buzzing silence, Hermione realized three terrible things at the same time. 

One: a man with a sharp, angular face stood in the center of the smoke, a smirk playing at his lips and a pale wand in his hand.

Two: Ginny was looking at him and screaming.

Three: Harry was frozen besides her. And even as the wizard raised his wand, even as a terrible spell began to tumble off his lips, Harry did not move.

“It can’t be,” he breathed.

And Tom Riddle cast the killing curse.


End file.
